


On a cold winter's night that was so deep

by evil_whimsey



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, I really don't like Christmas, miserable future, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe there was a time when things like grace, or holiness, or the miracles this season likes to advertise were a possibility for him.</i>
</p>
<p>Hypothetical futurefic:  Mori is stuck in a hotel during Christmas.  But that isn't his biggest problem.<br/>(In which the author has major cynicism regarding holidays, and takes it out on perfectly nice imaginary people.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a cold winter's night that was so deep

By late afternoon the snow is so thick it obscures the golf course, a wild swirl of dense specks caught in the peach-tinted glow of the tennis court lights. Mori watches it spin, forehead propped against the window of his hotel room, mobile still clasped in his palm.

He might as well put the phone away; he's called everyone he can think of, and the news is ever the same. The airport is closed, the roads will be shortly. He is stuck in the resort for another night, at the very least.

Downtime is about the last thing he wants right now, never mind all the well-meaning individuals who have lately been hinting it might be the best thing for him. Inertia is his enemy, and even now he can feel the claustrophobia closing in at the mere prospect of a night alone with his thoughts for company.

Having emptied his email inbox, sent messages and replies to everyone who might conceivably require one, tidied up all the loose ends on his diagrams and projection charts, and even squared his expense account to the penny, he pushes back from the desk, closes his laptop, and feels the stillness of the room tightening like a silken noose about his throat.

He needs to get out of here.

The elevator descends smoothly to the mezzanine, but Mori can hear the groaning of the storm winds in the shaft above his head, an acoustic peculiarity common to certain hotels, he's learned. When he steps onto the plush carpet leading to the hotel lounge (one of many, here) that ghostly groaning seems to wrap around his shoulders and follow him. He can no longer hear it of course, but he can feel it cloaked about him; lowering skies and spinning snow, shoving at his back and shoulders.

The feeling is completely at odds with the festive holiday color in the lounge; the boughs of pine and holly, gold and silver ornaments softly gleaming, and the tiny lights winking from the branches of a huge fat Scotch pine in the corner. There is music to go with the overall spectacle; in keeping with the resort it is more tasteful than the jingly pop carols he's heard around town, and at the airport a few days ago, but nevertheless it speaks to him in the same way of sentiments entirely beyond his grasp. Maybe there was a time when things like grace, or holiness, or the miracles this season likes to advertise were a possibility for him. But that possibility disappeared years ago, along with his belief that hope or desire could be anything but myths designed to torment.

*

"Well of all the people to stumble over here."

Hearing the voice at his elbow, Mori actually starts in surprise, and then he looks and the surprise absolutely vanishes. Because of course, on top of everything else today, the last person on earth he can imagine withstanding right now, would come and find him.

"Honoka-san." He sets the drink he's been nursing on the end table at his elbow and stands, surreptitiously wiping his palm on his trouser seam as he bows, before offering a handshake to his former fiancee. "It's been a long time, you look well."

"You're not driving me off with pleasantries, Takashi," she answers. "Order me a drink." Giving him that placid smile with the razor blades behind it, the one he remembers whenever he's tempted to think his life is nothing but a long string of terrible decisions. He didn't marry her, so that was at least one right decision, however long she will make him pay for it.

He tips his head in polite acquiescence, and catches the eye of the bartender across the room. He waits until she settles herself, with that tense high-strung grace that always reminded him of a greyhound at Westminster (which he would never, under the worst pain of torture, admit), into the velvety club chair adjacent to his own, and then he takes his seat again as well.

"You're here on business?" he asks, wishing very much that he could circumvent etiquette and finish off the martini perspiring at his elbow. Initially, the drink had only been something to occupy his hand, but now he needs to put something between himself and this conversation, and the sooner the better.

"Spokesperson audition, Shiseido," she tells him. Then, turning to the uniformed waiter, "Two fingers of Macallan, one ice cube."

"Congratulations." Mori lifts his glass, nodding toward the waiter to request another, and then discreetly sucks down a gulp. He dislikes gin, and had only ordered it as a way of limiting himself. Now it's become a necessary evil.

"I already know you're here on business," Honoka tells him. "Though you're not dressed for a meeting." She cocks her head, lasering in on him. "That's a handsome sweater. Your mother picked it out?"

"London tailor," Mori answers. Honoka was always vicious when she picked fights, but never particularly cunning, and already he can see his role in this exchange. To stand bulwark against her rage, on behalf of his family. It was their decree which dissolved the engagement, but since she cannot take them to task, Mori will suffer in their stead.

And he will suffer, he knows this, but one appalling conversation in a hotel bar is not a terrible price to pay for having escaped a lifetime of her company.

*

When the waiter brings their drinks, the music shifts from gently shimmering harpsichord to a soft burnished Handel recitative. Perversely, Mori wonders if Honoka still carries that ten million Yen insurance rider on her flawless and incredibly photogenic hands. But he knows the potential fallout from asking will cost him far more than the answer is really worth. So instead he asks about her family.

"They're in Greece. Mother says she wishes to tour the Continent until the scandal dies down." She cuts her gaze to him, just in case Mori could have missed what 'scandal' was implied. A more daring man might remark that at this rate, her parents may as well apply for foreign citizenship; it was just over a year since the engagement ended. But Mori was about as far from daring as it was possible for a person to be, while still putting one foot in front of the other on a daily basis, and he already knew the strength of Honoka's throwing arm.

"Ah," he answered, giving her an understanding nod.

"You're a heartless fuckwit, Morinozuka Takashi," she told him evenly. "A coward."  
"Yes." It was true, after all.

"Tell me the truth. Who were you fucking, before we broke up. Was it Ootori? Some girl you paid? That wretched grocery boy in Karuizawa?"

All at once, Mori is blindsided by mindless, murderous rage. His vision blanks out, the room does a swift three-sixty around him, his heart flounders against the walls of his chest. All he can think is that he mustn't move, not one muscle, because if he moves he will kill her. If he draws one breath, he will kill her. If he doesn't clamp down with all the willpower left to him, right this instant, he will destroy everything in his reach.

The black fuzz subsides from his eyes, the ocean roar in his ears dwindles to quiet, he sees his fingers dug in yellow-white against the arms of his chair. One slow breath and his anger is a fist-sized coal under his solar plexus, but he can contain that. It won't get loose from him, won't be a danger to anyone else.

_"For, behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people...,"_  sings the muted chorus from the lounge speakers. Mori reaches for his second martini, and drains it.

"There was no one," he answers, dabbing his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I strongly suggest you do not ever repeat such comments about Ootori Kyouya, anywhere else. He takes his reputation very seriously." He holds her gaze just long enough to reinforce the gravity of his advice, and then sets aside his glass and stands.

"Now I must apologize for leaving so soon, but I'm hoping for an early flight tomorrow. Best of luck with your work, here."

He gets an impression of her as he passes to sign out his tab; all skewed angles and jutting lines, like a newly-built house frame, collapsed on itself.

"I hate you," she murmurs, in his wake.

"Yes," he agrees, and continues on to the bar.

 

*****


End file.
